


The Day I Tried to Live

by rednihilist



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Season/Series 04, What Should Have Happened Instead of Season 5 imho
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-19
Updated: 2014-06-19
Packaged: 2018-06-05 13:50:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6706807
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rednihilist/pseuds/rednihilist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes a week, well, eight and a half days, but it's a goddamn week before Ian's out of that bed, that room, that fucking hovel. A week, and he's sitting on the front stoop when Fiona gets there, looking down at the steps or his feet or the earth beneath them all. Who knows? Who knows anymore?</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Day I Tried to Live

**Author's Note:**

> No profit is gained from this writing—only, hopefully, enjoyment.

The irony of it was, Ian had always pretty much been the good kid, right on up to the point he wasn't. As a baby, he hadn't gotten sick or hurt any more than the others, a good deal less so than, say, Carl or Lip—or, God, _Liam_. When he'd started tottering around, he hadn't eaten any cleaning products (or coke, or _coke_ , for God's sake) or broken any bones or set anything on fire. He hadn't even cried that often. Lip's the one who wailed like a siren when nobody paid him enough attention. Carl's the pyro, the little psycho, the worst kind of bully. Debbie's a good kid, but it's different. She's a bit more high maintenance. She's impulsive, defensive, kicking into fucking puberty now and a walking nuclear reactor. Volatile, that's Debs; that's all of them; that's Ian now. Not always, though, not so much as the others, as the rest of them. Turns out, he's something of a late bloomer in that regard. Gallagher genes will out, though.  
  
It takes a week, well, eight and a half days, but it's a goddamn week before Ian's out of that bed, that room, that fucking hovel. A week, and he's sitting on the front stoop when Fiona gets there, looking down at the steps or his feet or the earth beneath them all. Who knows? Who knows anymore?  
  
She'd blurted it out two nights ago to V, asking her, _What if it's not him anymore? What if he's not Ian?_  
  
_He's sick, not dead!_ V had shouted.  
  
_Not this way_ , Fiona couldn't help saying. _This way, he's both. Which one's my brother? Which one's the disorder? What do I say?_  
  
_You tell him you love him, and you're gonna get him some goddamned help, and you, girl, pull your fucking head out of your fucking ass!_  
  
_But he knows!_ Fiona had said, whispered. V looking at her in confusion, and it was all Fiona could do to ask, _Is he Monica now? Is he that kid I- I tried to raise? Does he know what's happening? It's like- like he's drowning, like he's been fucking drowning this whole damn time, and none of us even thought to- to reach out._ Crying, tears, weeping, that's all she's done, that's all she's able to do, Mickey and Lip and fucking Mandy saying to just wait it out, see it through, catch him on the other side of this depressive phase, and what rattles around in Fiona's head like bowling balls is their confidence that there's gonna be an 'other side,' that that's somehow guaranteed.  
  
It's not; there's no certainty here. Ian's sick, _bipolar_ , and getting better doesn't- doesn't really happen with this thing he's got. There's now and later, and one flies into the next before you know it. He could be sleeping and then dead under the L inside 10 minutes. He could be gone again to who knows where in an afternoon. He could–  
  
But he's right there, right here now, in front of her and in front of the Milkovich house, shivering in a fucking hoodie, the moron.  
  
"It's still winter, you know," Fiona says, stopping at the foot of the stairs, maybe a foot away from this kid who's always growing up, growing strong, surprising and shocking and too goddamned quiet all the time.  
  
What Ian doesn't say could fill libraries.  
  
She gets nothing in response except a tiny nod of acknowledgment, which is better than nothing but nowhere near the smirk she'd been hoping for.  
  
"Think maybe you should be wearing a coat or something?" she tries next. Then, noticing up close how pale and delicate his bare fucking feet look in the frigid tundra of a typical Southside Chicago winter, Fiona adds, "Or fucking shoes? Jesus, Ian, you're making me shiver just looking at you out here."  
  
He looks up at that, pale feet, pale hands, fucking translucent face. When'd he grow out of freckles, huh? When'd he grow so far away, too tall for her to reach anymore, to slap upside the head for doing stupid shit or not doing what's good for him? Grew up, yeah, grew inside, inward too. Always tucking everything away and then this. Maybe it figures he's the first to really fall apart.  
  
"How you doin', kiddo?" she asks.  
  
And he's looking right at her, but the lights aren't on. Somebody's home, but they're sleeping. A fucking ghost is what's sitting here, and it's a punch to the gut, mourning someone still alive.  
  
" 'm ok," he finally says, slowly, like it's hard, like he has to think about it for awhile. Then Ian's head drops back down, and he's kinda—gone, right here on the steps, and she can tell just looking at him that he's checked out again.  
  
"Yeah," she says, "you're ok, hon." Fiona goes up the steps and slides down next to him, bumping his shoulder with hers and leaning into him. "Still need some fucking socks or something, though," she says after a moment, and it just about breaks her heart when all she gets—is that tiny little nod again. It's something, right? He's probably trying real hard in there somewhere, a nod out here like a scream inside his head.  
  
"Oh, Ian," she can't help saying, but she doesn't cry. Wouldn't help any, just make things tougher for him. Guilt already, likely, or a helluva lot more when he really starts coming up out of the depression. She can do hard for him, strong, be solid when he's low. She can fucking do that.  
  
Break down a little more when she goes home, in her room, when everyone's somewhere else and she's still fucking things up right here by herself.  
  
"We'll get through this, get you better, ok?" she says. Then, pushing on before he can fucking nod again, Fiona tells him, "You're a Gallagher. Ain't some illness gonna get the best of you, am I right? Take a helluva lot more than that, lemme tell ya."  
  
Creaking sound from behind them, in the house, and she's betting it's Mickey but doesn't turn to look. Just calls back, "You got any shoes for this dumbass? Sitting out here in the snow like he's just asking for pneumonia on top of everything! Who do you think you are, huh?" she pitches back more quietly to Ian, "Some kind of albino Eskimo?"  
  
Snort from the house—definitely Mickey—and then more creaking as he probably goes in search of footwear.  
  
A minute, and the guy's footsteps come back, the slap of the screen door sounding like a cymbal crash when he comes outside. Creak, creak, creak on the front porch, and then there are two of the fuzziest, grayest fucking socks Fiona's ever seen, dangling right in her face. She cranes her neck backwards, and sees Mickey's frowning face far above her.  
  
Mick's looking at her, but he opens his mouth and says to Ian, "I fucking told you, didn't I? Nag, nag, nag. She ain't your mom, but she might as well be."  
  
Fiona takes the socks before Mickey can likely drop them or toss them. The old wood creaks again as he steps away, but the door doesn't make a sound, so he's sticking around.  
  
She's kinda glad.  
  
Reaching down and lifting Ian's leg so she can get the first sock on, Fiona smiles a little and says, "Been awhile since I had to dress you, you know." Moving on to the second, she adds, "Stopped when you were about six and suddenly you were the one in charge. You remember?" she asks, sitting up again when she's done and giving his leg a final pat and slight shake. Fiona turns a little then on the stair, trying to– feeling like maybe Mickey's a bigger player in this than– than even Fiona herself is. Probably, right? Boyfriend, friend, lover? Gonna be a lot closer than big sister. That's normal.  
  
"You said to me," Fiona starts, still talking to Ian but looking at both of them, these boys, these stupid, reckless, brilliant boys, "'Fi, Lip doesn't need help.' And I said, 'Well, yeah, but he's a big boy.' And then you said you were bigger. Which you were, cos you outgrew Lip when you were, like, three. So we made a deal, you and me. Do you remember?" And Ian's not looking at his feet anymore, but he's not looking all the way up yet either.  
  
It's Mickey who's got her attention now. The look on that kid's face.  
  
"I said, 'Ok, if you can dress yourself and be ready for school _and_ get Lip ready to go, then you can be the big boy.' And next morning, there you were, there Lip was, both of you ready to go, backpacks, homework, shoes, the whole shebang." And here's the best part of the story, the punchline, so Fiona works a little more smile into her voice, puts up a good front for it, chuckles, and says, eyes on Mickey, eyes on Ian, "You didn't match at all. Not a single thing. But you were so goddamned proud, and Lip's standing there next to you– "  
  
A tiny nod. That nod, and then Ian says, "Purple sunglasses," at which point, Fiona actually loses it a little.  
  
"Purple sunglasses!" she echoes, loudly, grinning, sharing a brief look with the thug her brother seems determined to love and seeing something fragile in that boy's face, something desperate.  
  
And Fiona puts a hand on Ian's shoulder, where he's warm somehow despite how cold it is out here, how little he's wearing, how little life there seems to be left in him to keep him going right now. "Lip wearing those purple sunglasses, with that shit-eating grin on his face is something I will remember for the rest of my life. Wish I had a picture!" she says. "We'd pull it out and embarrass him every time his head got too big, right?"  
  
Mickey snorts, rubbing at the side of his mouth in an attempt to try and hide his expression, arms crossed over his chest, head canted to the side, pasting a scowl on his face to hide what Fiona can see as clear as day. Boys like him, like Lip and Ian, they're all bravado, machismo, and deep down they're fucking marshmallow. Or not deep down, sometimes.  
  
"Fucking hotpants over here'd give him a run for his money," Mickey says, suddenly, mouth all but obscured by his hand when Fiona glances over.  
  
When she looks at Ian, though, that's when her eyebrows skyrocket into her hairline and she smiles—because there's no distracted nod, no staring blankly at nothing, thousand-yard stare like.  
  
"Oh, there you are!" Mickey then crows, leaning forward from his perch on the railing to stare intently at Ian's profile where, Fiona's relieved to say, she's not imagining the shallow smile just barely curling the corners of Ian's mouth. "That fucking got your attention, didn't it? Purple glasses or whatever the fuck don't have nothing on that getup you been struttin' around in at that fucking club."  
  
"Oh, yeah?" Fiona says after a moment, a beautiful moment wherein Mickey smirks and Ian actually shakes his head. "Lip must've forgotten to mention that part, huh?"  
  
Another huff from the peanut gallery, and Mickey says, "Conveniently. Fucking glitter and eye crap and shiny little booties, too."  
  
Fiona laughs into the hand not currently squeezing Ian's shoulder, while Mickey basically embarrasses Ian out of his downward spiral.  
  
"Always the quiet ones, huh?" she says a moment later, getting her a chuckle from Mickey and eye contact from Ian.  
  
"There you are," Fiona says, quietly, smiling, not crying, not weeping. "Hey, kiddo."


End file.
